Captive Angel

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Jack turned his head, found her again. She hadn’t moved. No big surprise there, he told himself, as he—ever mindful of keeping the sheet in place—swung his legs over the side of the bed and struggled to a sitting position. He braced himself with his hands on the mattress and stared at his bare legs and feet until the room quit spinning and his stomach settled.

  Then, he raised his head, met her gaze, felt his hair fall forward over his brow. “My father’s dead, Miss Devlin,” he began. “And you seem to know something about the why of that—something you’re not telling me. I’d like to know what that something is.”

  She raised her chin a notch. “He was a sick old man, that’s true enough.”

  Jack jumped on that. “Sick? With what?”

  Angel eyed him, as if she didn’t know what to make of his question. “I don’t know. He coughed a lot, got weak all the time. But I don’t know what it was. He never said.” Then her expression deepened into a frown and she asked, “You didn’t know he was sick?”

  Jack wasn’t about to go into family troubles with her, but he did say, “No. I haven’t been home since January. Is that what he died of … that coughing sickness?”

  She shook her head, looked hesitant. But then she said, “No. It would’ve taken him soon enough … but he—Well, I’m sorry to say it, but he was killed.”

  Jack’s heart all but stopped. It seemed to hang heavy and leaden in his chest, like a weighted pendulum. His hands fisted around the sheets he gripped. “What…” He swallowed, stared at her, felt weak. He took several deep breaths, and tried again. “My father was killed? You mean like thrown from a horse? Or a wagon mishap, right?”

  She bit at her lower lip—as if she were considering her next words. “No. I mean … murder. But I thought you realized that earlier—a few days back—when you accused me of being responsible. I’m not. I didn’t do it.”

  Mute with renewed grief, hearing her as if from a great distance, Jack could only shake his head no, meaning that he had not been thinking of … murder. Not really. Perhaps he’d suspected it, but just hadn’t wanted to think it, or know it. Or accept it. But here Angel Devlin sat … saying it out loud. He watched her gaze rake over him, until finally she looked into his eyes and said, “I wondered when we’d get around to this.”

  When, indeed. Jack closed his eyes, took a breath or two. His father had been killed. And she said she didn’t do it. A rage swelled his lungs, gave him renewed strength, renewed desire for revenge. Clutching at the sheet, keeping it wadded around his front as he jerked it free and wrapped it around his hips, he stood up, weaved slightly, blinking and trying to get his bearings. Despite his dizziness, he managed to tell her, “Your wondering’s over, Miss Devlin. Because we’re there—we just got around to it.”

  Five

  Her nerves tingling with wariness, every sense telling her to flee, Angel came to her feet when Jack Daltry did. But far from fleeing—no more running, she’d promised herself—she stood beside the chair in his bedroom and wanted to kick herself. Why in the world had she thought she needed to play nursemaid to him? And what had possessed her to sit by his danged bed and chat with him?

  Watching him weave and gesture weakly, no doubt struggling to clear his head—and to keep that slippery sheet in place—Angel gripped her chair’s slatted back with one hand and held her ground … despite her thumping heart. And despite the gunbelt that was slung over a post of the polished-wood headboard near him.

  Seeing his weapon caused her to flash back to three days ago when he’d jerked the rifle out of her hands, marched her inside, and thrown her on the sofa. He was capable of hurting her, had already proven he wasn’t above it. And too, he’d already told her he intended to kill her if she wasn’t gone when he woke up. Well, he was awake, and she was still here. So did it make her stupid to stand here because of some dumb promise she’d made herself? The real question was, would he, the minute he got himself together, want to do some violence to someone?

  If he did … the only someone hereabouts was her. Angel’s expression hardened. He would have to kill her first, she knew that much. Because it seemed to Angel that when men got randy or even just upset with things, most of them got rough with women. She’d seen it all too often in her childhood years around the Silver Star, around her mother and the other women Virginia worked with. Even with herself, when she’d been a small girl who didn’t understand, who’d only wanted her mother’s attention, there’d been roughness.

  Angel harbored ugly memories of being smacked away from Virginia, of being wrenched out of her arms—over her mother’s protests, true enough, but still torn away—by her latest customer intent on having his paid entertainment to himself for a while. Angel remembered one man shoving her out the door and calling out, “Git now, young’un. This ain’t no place for you.”

  Words Angel had taken to heart. Especially when, past her girlhood and into her teen years, she’d started drawing the men’s notice in other ways. Since that time, she’d stayed away from the Silver Star altogether, promising herself that she would never be like those pathetic whores. Never. She’d never allow herself to be used like they were, to be helpless, to have to beg for mercy that never came. Yes, she knew what it felt like to be hit, to be on the other end … and helpless.

  Angel’s mouth dried with her renewed sense of her predicament. She spared a glance for her only avenue of escape, the opened door to the room. Could she make it before he grabbed her? She calculated his position, her own, and the distance. The odds favored him. Then she caught his gaze. Her belly muscles tightened. His head was clear enough now, because he was watching her real close like … as if he only waited for her to make a move.

  Why hadn’t she brought the Winchester up here, she railed against herself. Well, she had once or twice during the past two days. But she had decided she was just being silly. After all, the man had been passed out colder than a high-plains January day. But not now. No, he was definitely on his feet. And mad at the world. But not as mad as he was going to be in a minute, she knew. Because he was right—she did know the truth. And he wasn’t going to like it one little bit.

  Angel’s mind raced. Maybe she could stall his questions somehow, put him off until she was downstairs … closer to the guns. And out of this room. Because that was another thing she didn’t like. It was the man’s bedroom. That hadn’t bothered her half so much while he was sleeping off his liquor. Or even when she’d had to undress him and bathe him. Angel entertained a fleeting image of his muscular and naked self. All she was willing to admit right now was that he had the right parts in all the right places. Suddenly, she recalled rolling him around while she changed the sheets under him.

  A burst of heat reddened her cheeks. Of course, she’d seen her share of naked men before, first in the back rooms of the Silver Star and then over at the hotel, although usually by accident. But this was different. This wasn’t the saloon. Or the hotel. And he was Jack Daltry. Not some drunken drover trying to grope her as she went about her job. Angel swallowed, willing away the high color of her cheeks and wondering when it would occur to him that she’d … well, seen him in the altogether.

  Suddenly, given her thoughts and his silence, his scrutiny of her, the room felt too warm, the air seemed charged with the tension between them. Well, since he hadn’t moved, she wasn’t about to, either. No sense setting him off. Instead, Angel looked him up and down, assessing him as an adversary. Dark haired, muscled, tall. Blue eyes that looked right through a person. Nose a bit crooked. Some telltale scars on his face and arms that spoke of past troubles.

  But even considering all that, some would say he was handsome, was finely put together, she supposed. And yes, she’d have to agree with them. But her concern right now wasn’t his handsomeness. It was his size. He was most definitely a big man.

  About six angry feet and two hundred fearsome pounds of big man. So … stall him? Exactly how? No doubt, the backroom girls at the Silver Star knew all the feminine wiles a
nd ways of doing just that. But not Angel. Nor did she want to know them. She’d just have to rely on her wits, as she always had. But wits or no, she suddenly blurted, “Before you set about getting down to anything with me, you might want to put some pants on first.”

  Jack Daltry froze, his hands gripping the sheet tugged around his waist. “You think so?” His question dripped with sarcasm. Then he added, “Give me those you’ve got on. They are mine—like everything else around here.”

  That did it. Angel’s temper boiled over. Her cheeks heated with her anger, with her embarrassment—the clothes covering her body were his. “Everything?” she threw back at him. “I’m here, and I’m surely not yours. But the truth is, Mr. Daltry, not anything here is yours. And that’s according to your own father.”

  His index finger pointing at her, he said, “Now, dammit, that’s exactly what I mean. You listen to me—”

  “No,” Angel raged, cutting him off. “You listen to me. I’ve had all the threats I’m going to take from you. I’m here because your father wanted me to be here. Can you say as much?”

  She’d stunned him with her outburst, she could tell. His expression hardened, but his eyes, in their blue depths, took on the shadows of deep pain. So … she’d struck a nerve. It was enough for now. Silently, Angel turned and began what felt like a mile-long trek as she crossed the room. She expected to be shot or at least grabbed and stopped. Just let him try, she prayed. Just let him try. She’d learned a few tricks along the way for dealing with this situation. And she’d be glad to show him what they were.

  But he didn’t stop her. A bullet didn’t stop her, either. She made it safely to the open doorway and meant to turn into the hallway and keep going, but realized she still had something to say to him. So she turned and faced him once more, resting a hand against the door frame. He still stared at her, his face now a stone mask of hurt and belligerence.

  But Angel had no pity for him. Only an awareness of him as her foe. And that being the way of it, they might as well draw the battle lines now. And so she said, “From this moment forward, Mr. Daltry, my debt to your father is paid. Now it’s every man for himself, with regard to the Circle D. You up to the challenge?”

  His blue eyes became dark slits. Angel realized that any other man, standing there bare-chested and wrapped in a sheet, would have been laughable. But not Jack Daltry. No. Quite the opposite, in fact. Commanding, powerful, was more like it. Angel swallowed her fear of him and her awareness of his physical power. She thought he wasn’t going to say anything—prayed he wouldn’t, in fact.

  But then he said, “There’s no challenge here to be met, Miss Devlin. The Circle D is mine, plain and simple. Free and clear. I have blood kin on my side. What do you have?”

  Her eyebrow arched. “What do I have? Your father’s oath. Something you’re bound to honor.” With that, she turned and left the room. Her footsteps echoed on the hardwood floors and on the stairs that took her to the first floor.

  * * *

  Dressed now in clean denims and a flannel shirt, Jack made his shaky way downstairs. Once in the great room, he checked the time on the mantel clock. And got a surprise. Three hours, and a bracing nap—one that left him more capable of staying upright—had passed since Angel Devlin had as much as told him to get off his own land. He chuckled at that thought. The less-than-cheerful sound split the quiet air of the otherwise empty room and brought his surroundings into focus.

  Jack scanned the great room’s familiar spacious contours. He smiled as he examined the well-worn furniture, greeting each piece as an old friend. Then he noticed the long, dark fingers of the day’s shadows creeping across the floor toward his boots. He even listened a moment, almost afraid he’d hear the echo of his father’s voice. He couldn’t have stood that. The pain was too new, too raw.

  To his relief, no sounds met his ears. Not the sigh of a breeze. Not the howl of a coyote or the keening cry of a bird. And not a muffled rustling or hint of a sound that could verify for him that he wasn’t the last person left alive on earth. And still, he listened. But for whom was he listening, if his father was gone?

  Well, hell, there was only one other person hereabouts. But no sign of her presence. Assuming that she was still here. And he thought she was. There’d been nothing in her words or actions earlier that said quitter. No, she’d fight to the bitter end to stay here. It was the why of it—why she would fight—that eluded him. All he knew was, he was glad she hadn’t left. Jack stiffened. What the hell—? Where’d that come from? Glad she hadn’t left? He shook his head, denying his own unbidden thought.

  This house was making him crazy. Or maybe it was the quiet. It had to be. Again he surveyed the room, turning his head with the slow, deliberate calculation of an eagle. Yes, it was too quiet. And yet too full. Full of the memories of people he’d never see again. Of the sounds of voices he’d never hear again. He glanced at the small framed picture to the left of the clock. His mother’s youthful face gazed solemnly back at him.

  She had been a beautiful woman, that much he could see. She’d died when he was so young, though, that Jack had no memory of the sound of her voice. And that saddened him, made the loss seem worse. His mind then flitted to Old Mother. No picture of her graced any mantel or wall in the house. But she was gone, too. Still, as he stood there bathed in dust motes dancing on the invading shafts of sunlight, Jack believed that he could hear the soft cadence of the Comanche woman’s voice.

  Not so old when she arrived, she’d come out of nowhere when his mother died. She’d just ridden up on her horse that day and said … she was here. And she’d stayed, never offering any explanation for her presence or how she knew they needed her. Over the years, she’d become more mother than nanny to him and the newly born Seth.

  Seth. Jack shook his head, grunted with defeat. Where the hell could Seth be? It wasn’t as if he hung around the place. Nor did Jack want him to. The kid was a hothead. And an outlaw. And made them all miserable with his selfish, law-breaking ways. But still, Seth had a right to know about Pa … if he ever showed up again. How long had it been? Jack thought … Well, unless Seth had put in an appearance during Jack’s four-month absence, then it’d been over a year since he’d ridden through with those worthless bastards he ran with.

  Jack shook his head, exhaling his breath on a sigh. Seth was one little son of a gun best left alone. The less he knew of Seth’s exploits, Jack told himself, the better he slept. But still … Seth was his brother. And he loved him … faults, flaws, and all.

  Just then, Jack became restless in his inactivity. Or maybe he was still suffering from the ill effects of the whisky. He winced. Damn. Don’t even think the word, he warned himself. As if agreeing, his stomach rumbled. Jack rubbed it, trying to remember when he’d had his last meal. Couldn’t come up with it. But still, the mere thought of food right now thickened his saliva, all but closed his throat, had him grimacing.

  Food could wait. He had something else he needed to do. Something that held his grief at bay, something that stiffened his spine and his knees, that kept him from giving in to the abject sorrow that threatened to break his heart. And so, he locked it away, deep inside, refusing even to consider his loss. All he knew was his father had been murdered. Murdered. It was a cold word. An ugly word. Cold and ugly … like his mood right now. And in this mood, Jack wanted to know only two things. Who. And why.

  He knew where to get those answers. From Angel Devlin. She was the key to what was was going on around here. Go find her. Liking the sound of that, the decisiveness of it, Jack crossed the room and turned left, proceeding down the hall to the kitchen’s back door. She had to be outside. There was no place inside he hadn’t searched. Hell, before he came downstairs, he’d gone out of his way to look into the other three bedrooms upstairs. Only to find she’d taken the one Old Mother’d slept in.

  He opened the back door and stepped outside. The bright day greeted him with the warm kiss of spring. A slight breeze ruffled his hair. Blinking
until his eyes adjusted to the light, Jack looked this way and that, searching the yard and the service court to the horse barn. And then, off to his right, out back … he found her. His eyes narrowed as he saw where she knelt. He set himself in motion, heading toward her. Goddamn her.

  * * *

  The hair on Angel’s arms stood up. She stilled her hands, frowning in concentration as she listened without turning around. Jack Daltry was coming her way. Her pulse picked up. Was the man a force of nature that he could affect her senses so? For the muddy ground under his feet hadn’t warned of his approach. Then how was it that she could feel him close to her?

  No one had ever affected her this way before. And she wasn’t the least bit happy to admit to herself that he did. Surely it had to be because she expected him to kill her at any moment. Surely.

  But even so, and not really believing her own rationalization, Angel still didn’t turn around or otherwise acknowledge the man’s presence. She simply resumed her task, which was tending to Wallace Daltry’s grave. Not that there was much to tend, given its newness. But with last night’s rain, the mounded earth had settled some.

  When she’d come outside and seen the indented ground next to Lily Daltry’s grave, she’d felt a need to pile more dirt on, to level off the site again. And she’d done all that. But now she wished she hadn’t traipsed out to the meadow to pick all these stupid little flowers to adorn the two graves. That was just plain crazy. She hadn’t even known the woman buried here. But still, it hadn’t seemed right to put some on one resting place and not the other.

  Heckfire, Angel chastised herself, she hadn’t gone to that much trouble for her own mother’s last resting place. Not that she’d had much of a chance, what with having to kill that Kennedy fella and then the lynching and all. But Angel knew better. She wouldn’t have searched for flowers to mark Virginia’s grave if she’d had all the time on earth. Why? Because that would mean her mother meant something to her, that she was someone her daughter would miss.